Scarborough Fair
by candelight
Summary: Gentle Claes cultivates her makeshift plot for flowers. Thus they bloom, burn, and are reborn innocent again...albeit with thorns, next time around. Tribute chapters for seven of the SWA girls, each one with their own significant bloom. First GSG fiction.
1. White Roses: Henrietta

Scarborough Fair

Gentle Claes cultivates her makeshift plot for flowers. Thus they bloom, burn, and are reborn innocent...albeit with thorns. Tribute chapters for seven of the SWA girls, each one with their own significant bloom.

Quote:

"The Red Rose Whispers of Passion.

And the White Rose Breathes of Love;

O, the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove."

Chapter One-White Roses: Henrietta

They left her. She was, after all, just another body: Albeit one that offered great pleasure. They listened to her screams, heard her moans, her cries. Each one precious, each one earning a new spark of nirvana for those who'd stepped out of the borderlines of humanity-where angelos, those of God and of the Devil, feared to tread.

They were less then monsters; less then human. For while she sobbed for her parents, she knew they lay dead next to her-still around the broken china, still on the floor in pools of red, surrounded by her birthday cake.

The child had been celebrating her twelfth birthday just that day. Her two older brothers and older sister had smiled as the little blond haired girl had carefully made her wish, and blown out the candles. Her brothers had smiled, dark eyes twinkling, and her mother had laughed as she kissed her daughter's brow. Her father had handed her a bouquet of pink carnations, and white roses, claiming, as teenage boys would soon be standing in line at the door to give his little girl flowers, he wanted to be the first lucky one.

It had been heaven. She had made her wish to find love.

And then, they had broke in. And the shooting began.

Chaos had exploded; the table overturned. Rough, unfamiliar hands had seized the wounded twelve year old to the floor.

And , after awhile, they left her lying there, in the remains of what had used to be her dining room. The balloons had been popped, the presents overturned or smashed, and everywhere, everywhere, were discarded flower petals.

Even as the little girl lay in agony in a small, dark puddle, wishing for death, they carpeted her. Some of the petals had fallen in the many bloodstains around the floor.

And thus, innocence had died.

The papers were all over it, people shook their heads and tsked, much as people often do, when they passed by the remains of Mr. Pimontto's home. He'd been such a kind government official, and his young family…..

No one knew what happened to the little girl. But no one wished to find out. It was enough to know that the Pimonttos had all been discreetly carried out by the Police in body bags; enough to know that only member had been 'lucky' enough, as the press put it, to be wheeled away in an ambulance.

The remains of her home were carpeted by bouquets of the simple white roses; everywhere, everywhere, were the cream-colored flowers. But the little girl saw none of it. Her eyes were blank and empty. If they took in anything of the flower, it would have been the color.

The color of death.

She confided in her doctors a longing to be dead. She could vaguely remember the anxious physicians trying to keep her in good cheer, even as she slowly began to waste away, behind those white halls. She could also remember a handsome young face-a face that reminded her of her brother Pietro's visage.

His eyes had been dark, and haunted. There were numerous lines underneath the eyes that suggested a great deal of darkness seen in too little years.

But there had been pity glimmering there. Pity, sympathy, and, though she thought it might be a trick of the light, empathy. There was darkness in this boy, too. A darkness that threatened to be consuming, insatiable, and inescapable. She had watched the boy as the doctors wheeled her in to yet another surgical procedure. She had asked no questions-it wasn't as if she cared what happened, anymore-though the doctors had sent each other guilty looks when they thought she wasn't looking. They wheeled her into surgery on a cold, clanking gurney, with the strange new boy walking beside her, holding her hand.

"Everything's going to be all right, now. Shh. Shhh. I'm sorry. I want to help you.

I'm so sorry….."

When they came to the doors, the young man had slowly let go of her hand. As the doctors busily began to wash their hands, and began rummaging in large drawers for what sounded suspiciously like metallic appliances, the little girl mused over what the man had said.

Why had he been sorry if he wanted to help her? What help could HE give?

Someone gently reached for her arm, and carefully began to slide the needles in. As another nurse began to slide a breathing mask over her mouth, the child stared at the ceiling, distracted for just one moment from the misery of her existence.

He'd been kind. Not fake-kind, as so many of the doctors and nurses around here had been. There had been genuine understanding in those eyes.

What did he want for her?

Wanting to get rid of the light glaring in her eyes, she squeezed them tightly shut, still remembering the boy's face as the drowsiness began to sink into her system. It was the last thing she ever remembered.

There was a solitary white rose by her bed when they'd quietly wheeled her into a bed. A sympathetic nurse had left it by the newborn assassin's side before silently tiptoeing out the small room. The irony never left.

When she woke, her mind was blank. Quiet. The screaming had stopped. The only thing she took care to notice as she slowly sat up in bed on her own effort-hardly stopping to consider it-was that there was a window behind her bed that had sunlight streaming in from behind her in the lonely room. There sat a fading white flower in a vase, which looked like a somewhat sad attempt to cheer up an otherwise cheerless room. Beside her bed, there was another window, this one entirely made out of glass.

The girl started as she heard the door creak open, and her head slowly swiveled towards it. An unrecognizable figure in a dark suit had opened it, his face weary, but eyes alert.

"You're awake."

For a moment, the two simply looked at one another. The young man dark eyes met hers, and for whatever reason, awkwardly flickered down.

"You thirsty?"

The young girl simply looked at him. But even though she can't really understand that she has a voice, let alone what a voice really is, a response flickers out of her quickly, as if she's given it a thousand times before:

"No, thanks."

The man looks at her.

Then, he slowly crosses the room, and carefully lays something down on the child's comforter. She stares at the small, weird contraption, faintly pondering what the thing that reads SIG-Sauer P-239 on its side could be.

The man breaks the silence once again as he steps back, his eyes daring to meet hers once again.

"My name is Jose."

And thus, he had a name. And the white rose received her thorn.

A petal flickered from the weary plant still sitting by the windowside.

She understands why she must kill terrorists: Because the SWA says so. But more importantly, it's because Jose says so. She doesn't really hate terrorists-but Jose does, with a quiet fury that puzzles her. Because Jose hates them, and perceives them as a threat, that's all the excuse she needs to fire when it comes to a confrontation.

He gives her things from time to time. She feels spoiled; like the world has become a perpetual Christmas, sometimes. He gave her name-Henrietta-which she knows is special, because Jose picked it out for her. He gave her a camera, a photo album, and a diary, which are among the dearest things she owns. She never asks Jose for anything, however, though the knowledge that she COULD is amazing. Thus, she does better then her best in trying to please him, and works hard each and every day to become stronger-to better keep him safe.

He'll bring her nice things when she does well, and sometimes, even when she doesn't. He gave her a lovely coat, which she loves, and a lovely Summer's hat, which too, is a prized possession, though the feelings that came behind that seem infinitely more important to Henrietta.

He'll take her places. He'll listen to her play the Violin. And, every now and again, he'll bring her flowers. Pink carnations, poppies, pleasant bouquets, blushing red roses, even some seeds for her and Claes to plant-but never any white flowers, and, for this, Henrietta is grateful, though she doesn't THINK she told Jose she doesn't like them. At least, she can't remember mentioning it.

Day by day, life goes on, as it somehow does in the halls of Italy's Renowned Social Welfare Agency. Though, as Elsa has put it, tomorrow could very well be the last day of their lives, Henrietta believes that can apply to anyone, and tells herself to work harder.

Jose doesn't have a girlfriend-not one she knows of-but the idea of him having one is heartbreaking. The white flower of innocence blooms again, but for different reasons, now. Now, she tends thorns she never had to keep the gardener safe from any unruly or greedy beings.

But no one can call her malignant. No one can call this young killer impure or a monstrosity. Seeing her smile, seeing her laugh, breathe air, and enjoy life, despite all that's befallen, what else can anyone call her but amazing?

The white rose blooms preciously.

Next: Sunflower: Rico


	2. Sunflowers: Rico

If I had to choose a favorite, Rico probably qualifies….I really hope everyone likes this!

_Rico: Sunflower_

_Quote:_

"Bring me then the plant that points to those bright Lucidites swirling up from the earth, and life itself exhaling that central breath!

Bring me the **sunflower** crazed with the love of light!"

_*Gunslinger Girl Manga Spoiler Alert!_

_~0~_

She grew in cracked, disapproving Earth, and yet stays indifferent to the tough soil, and lifts her face to the sunshine. It doesn't seem to matter much to her that the owner of this flower seems to regard her as a mere automation, nor is she unhappy when the fruits of her labor are silently taken, without word of thanks. The Sunflower never complains, nor bends easily, even when the bright yellow petals grow dull, and its cheerful head begins to droop. It never asks for much; water once in awhile, occasional weeding, maybe-but these are relatively small requests, and the Sunflower never needs much care.

Which is a very, very thankful thing, else, this bloom would have withered away and died by now, if it hadn't succumbed to darkness long before.

In the days that Rico was _not_ Rico-and had another name, she could faintly remember dried flowers growing in a window box near her hospital bed. She could never reach out to touch them, however-no leave the safety of her bed. Her continuously trembling, aching body would not have permitted her such a luxury, and thus, in her mattress, hooked up to a series of large and frightening-looking machines, she stayed, struggling to breathe while her parents ill-conceived their yelling at each other, day in, day out.

"Just where have you been all this time, woman?"

There was a pause; then, the sound of breaking glass.

"I'VE been HERE! The one place where you're always too BUSY to be! I TAKE CARE OF HER!"

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THESE HOSPITAL BILLS RUN UP? _THAT'S_ why I'm away all the time!"

In the end, the Doctor's diagnosis wasn't good. It hadn't changed from the day the child had stumbled into the world with a series of paralyzing birth defects. She couldn't move. Breathing was labored, and burned at her insides with a fire that seemed to radiate itself perpetually from her chest and tummy.

Rico would never move without assistance, given her state. And, sooner or later, (Most likely the former) the girl was going to die, leaving her parents with a broken marriage, and a series of bills that piled on their already high mortgage rate.

One of the head physicians, a Dr. Bianchi, seemed to pity the young family. He invited in the little girl's parents to his office with a proposition on the child's eleventh birthday.

To her parents, the proposition seemed an unlikely miracle. All hospital bills would be quietly shuffled aside; financial expenses over. Besides, surely this was the right thing to do: After all, their child would be made well again, right? She could walk. She could do….certain things. What those certain things were, no one was quite certain, but they had to be GOOD things, right? Italy's New Social Welfare Agency was said to be doing immense good for society; that children who were previously lame could now walk with cheap, artificial implants, that people were continuously correcting new, safe medical procedures for 'adaptations made for the safety and wellbeing of society as a whole.'

The girl's mother hesitated before signing the form. She'd been careful to read the fine print, unlike the father, who had scribbled his name on the thirteen consent forms almost immediately.

She would never see her child again. The small ray of sunshine in the hospital room she visited every day. The confining, depressing, bleak hospital room, which the mother always visited with ill humor, feeling as though she ought to be canonized as a saint for her sacrifices. The one that always smelled of antiseptic, IV fluids, and medicine. The one that was always filled by the sound of many machines humming or beeping, the child's gasping, or her and her husband's screaming.

She found it easier then she thought she would to sign her name. She didn't notice the pitying look that the Doctor cast the two of them, or the look of abhorrent disgust he fired at them as they quietly closed the door.

A young man, his features handsome, but hardened and cold, had entered the child's room as a team of doctors trooped in afterwards. He'd stared at her, icy blue eyes fixated on the pale child, flickering occasionally to her blonde hair and blue eyes-ones that greatly resembled his. She could easily pass for his daughter-or even little sister.

He'd approached her unceremoniously. At the sound of his footsteps, the girl's eyes opened, and she feebly turned her head in his direction. At this, he raised an eyebrow.

"Do you want to learn how to walk?"

At this, the girl's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to hastily reply:

"Can you teach me? What do my parents say of this?"

The man did not reply for a moment. Then-

"I asked you if you wanted to learn how to walk. On your own."

She needed no more prompting.

"Yes, sir-very much. I do want to know how, though my legs are-"

He turned away, and waved aside her words, which soon died away. He turned to face the nearest nurse, who jumped when he addressed her:

"She'll do. I've had a good look at her charts, so she'll be an acceptable prototype. Just be sure to cut her hair-that's not something we need. Call a Barber, if you must. I don't care who does it."

With that, he slowly began to retreat out the door. The nurse stared at him in a stupor, and, upon recovering her wits, stuttered out:

"H-How short, s-sir?"

The man slid on a pair of dark sunglasses, not breaking his pace as he proceeded to walk down the hall.

"Short. I thought I had made that perfectly clear."

~0~

They wheeled her into surgery, with the curious girl being none the wiser as to what was about to happen. For some reason, Mother and Father were nowhere to be found.

Nineteen hour s later, her eyes flickered open. Her mind felt heavier, more opaque then before. It was as if a haze had settled in upon her mind and body, making it harder to shift around. It was as if she'd become a little marionette whose strings were being tightly pulled.

But she didn't dwell on that for very long. For, not thinking about it, she shifted in her bed, quite easily, as if she'd been born knowing how to do it.

And, her heart nearly stopping in midbeat, she _moved_.

It was a glorious miracle; one that had her light blue eyes stinging, and the tears spilling down her face. She slowly turned to face a small mirror that had been in her hospital bedroom for over nine years, able to see her reflection for the first time.

Her cornflower hair had been cut-but who cared? While she had once entertained the idea of being able to wear a ballgown or to have elegant hair curled into a bun as a small toddler, what did that amount to having hands that could curl into fists-to being able to wriggle, or kick her feet? To being able to breathe without her body having small spikes of pain that made her eyes mist over?

Deliriously excited, she attempted to stand, but tumbled to her knees on the cold floor. Her eyes at last drifted over to the man standing beside her bed, near the old windowbox, recognizing him.

He was talking on a cellular phone, brow furrowed.

"Yeah. Yeah, the procedure's done. She should be waking up soon. Once I teach her a few things about moving, I can give her her first pistol. It's a reliable little airgun, so it's a good start."

There was a pause.

"_Si_. I told them to use an excess of conditioning. Jose, I don't care about that."

He sounded like he was getting annoyed.

" _Yes_, I do realize the repercussions, believe it or not, brother. It's a small sacrifice. Maybe if you were willing to make one for the good of your country instead of wallowing in every hospital in Italy, you'd find an unlikely payoff. This girl will be one, if I have any say in it."

With that, he closed his phone, and turned around. His eyes narrowed.

"About time you woke up. I was wondering."

He crossed the room over to the dresser, and crossed his arms, quietly surveying her. There was no love or approval behind his glasses-not that the girl could let herself care. She was still trembling with the miracle now moving her body-the way SHE wanted it to move!

"P-Please, sir, how-"

"You belong to me, now," Jean interrupted, curtly. Puzzled, though still admiring her twitching hands, the girl's curiosity was mildly piqued.

"Sir…?"

He abruptly cut her off.

"You will address me as 'Jean,' or 'Sir.' Whichever one works-I don't much care."

He stared at her; Rico's startled reflection appearing twice on the surface of his dark shades.

"Is that understood?"

For some reason or another, it was easy to humbly nod. Her mouth immediately fell shut, and quiet clarity fell over her body. Thrilled as she was, exhilarated as she was, she must listen to Mr…what's his name, Jean.

Jean turned to the side, turning glassy eyes towards the door.

"Tomorrow morning, we start training. You better know how to stand by then; otherwise, there's no point in bringing you back to the SWA with me."

"What about mother and father?"

The traitorous words escaped from her mouth before she could stop them. Jean's face soured, and he slowly approached Rico's petite form still sprawled out on the floor.

"They signed you over to us yesterday morning. You're officially in our custody."

Silence. The little blonde haired girl blinked once, and then returned her attentions to her foot, which she was shaking slightly, back and forth, back and forth.

There were no feelings of betrayal burning inside of her; no sense of grief, nor loss. The tears would not start burning at her eyes.

Was this strange?

The little girl felt nothing. Jean could have told her that both of her parents had died, and yet, she doubted she would feel much more then what she felt right now.

Inside….she felt….well, there was no other word for it-quiet. She was quiet. It was not, she felt, an altogether unhappy feeling.

Quiet meant that the machines stopped humming, and that the screams had stopped. She was glad for her parents, but felt no yearning to behold them. Not really. If her mother ever came by to visit her when she was younger, that was fine. If, for whatever reason, she did not, that too, was fine. Neither of them had ever been close. Likewise for her and her father.

Something new had curled up inside of her. Was this part of having her own body to move? She supposed it must be-she had never felt anything quite like the dispassionate peace inside of her at the moment.

Jean cleared his throat, breaking her reverie again. He began to head towards the door, but he paused as his hand met the knob.

"If you need anything, just press the buzzer by the door-someone will be with you shortly. Get a good night's sleep tonight-you're going to need it."

He turned the handle, opened the door, and paused again.

"We'll get you settled in a dormitory soon enough where you'll be living. You'll have a room to yourself to awhile, though I'll suspect you might have a new roommate soon."

"Who-"

Jean turned his head around, scowling.

"Be quiet. We'll start with basic firearms training tomorrow morning after the hospital discharges you."

Discharge. After twelve years. Discharge. The idea almost made her giddy again. A dormitory. Practice with….what was it? Fiyarms. That sounded interesting, to say the least. Would the other people staying in the dorms be using fiyarms, too?

But Jean's voice immediately brought her out of her waking dreams:

"I've taken the liberty of checking your size charts, so I already bought you some clothes and shoes. Soon, they should be set up in an old dresser for you at the Agency.

"Ah….um…thank you very much."

Jean went on as if he hadn't heard her.

"You'll need a name."

She didn't bother telling him she already had a name. That was irrelevant. And why say anything when she was so much happier just listening to Jean talk?

Jean's eyes narrowed again as he considered her.

"I'll tell the people at Paperwork that your name is Rico. We'll get a file started immediately."

Rico. That was a boy's name. She knew that much. It meant 'Brave Ruler.'

But Jean had still not finished:

"You should work on some stretches tonight. Be ready to leave at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow."

Rico's voice was quiet as she answered him, sunny smile still plastered on her face.

"Yes sir."

Jean paused again at her smile, but soon, simply left the room. She watched him go, and listened to his footsteps as they trailed away down the hallway.

By now, panicked buzzes and countless questions would be stammering through any person's head as they heard Jean leave the room. But Rico only leaned back awkwardly against the floor, and _thought_.

SWA. What that was, she didn't know, or care. Her mind was patiently explaining what Jean had not done so very well: She must try to stand. Once she did that, she could walk. Walking could mean she could go places, such as out of the hospital, by Jean's side, to a car. She'd heard cars before from outside-could hear the Ambulances shrieking and roaring across the road. They went to the Hospital, and then away once again. Only Rico meant to never, ever enter a hospital again. Not if she could help it. She needed to be beside Jean, even if he snapped or scowled or got angry. That was just fine with her. Cruelty was something Rico could easily understand, and work with. It would have been bewildering if he treated her kindly-scary, almost.

Besides, in Rico's eyes, Jean had been very, very kind. He gave her a body of her own-one that moved at her will. Anything else was so easily forgotten. She'd already forgotten that he'd yelled at her.

Awkwardly, she scooted across the room, arms wobbling violently as she crawled on her knees, just managing to keep balance. She didn't stop until she came to a small, plank shelf nailed into the wall by the old window.

She paused.

Then, slowly working herself into a sitting up position, she slowly began to reach for the small piece of wood. Her fingers kept sliding off the old surface, and it creaked as she moved, but at last, she had a hold of it.

Then, Rico began to try to stand.

By the time that Jean came for her tomorrow morning, Rico had already packed her scant belongings, and was sitting on her bedside table, rocking her legs back and forth, back and forth in midair. There was a chaste smile on her features. The newborn sunflower sprouts shone a tranquil green in the warm sunlight.

~0~

The days go by, much as they always do. Rico shoots with hawk-eye precision whenever Jean points and says 'shoot.' Whether her weapon of choice happens to be the CZ-F5, or MG 3 'General Purpose' Machine Gun, she doesn't question her Handler's orders. If they are to die, well, there must be a reason for it-one Jean knows. Rico doesn't really think about it much, but perhaps that's alright. The only death that even caused her a pang of regret was when she was forced to kill her concierge friend, Emilio.

Jean's safety is first and foremost. She doesn't think when it comes to his safety-she simply does. If a waitress so much as spills water on her handler, then there's no use in considering anything when it's time to twist off an arm. (Thankfully, Jean works for the Government, and was able to pull them out of THAT mess.) Jean must live. Why, she doesn't know, but she's sure Jean does, and that's enough to keep smiling.

Jean can be ungrateful or as brutal as he likes; Rico doesn't really care, either way. A rare praise, a pat on the head, or an approving nod is all she really needs from Jean-and all a girl can really ask for. Rico is lucky in the fact that she does her best to please, and asks for little. Life had already taught her well that asking for little meant that you were much less likely to be disappointed.

Besides, to her, what's there to be disappointed in? She loves Jean. She loves learning German, even if it's still a bit tricky for her. She loves it when Henrietta helps her play the Violin, or when Claes lets her help in the garden.

Rico loves a lot of things. She has to think for a moment if she's asked what she DOESN'T like.

To her, every day is a new blessing. After waking up and checking that, yes, her body is still there and functioning, she'll bid Henrietta good morning, same as always, and occasionally do laundry with her roommate before heading down to breakfast. Then, it's usually off to the training grounds, the conditioning chambers, or to work, if Jean has a new assignment for her, today. Sometimes, she gets to see places like Naples. Or Florence. Or Venice. Every day is a new adventure with Jean, and so, she keeps her head to the sky….unless, of course, Jean shoves her head down to avoid it meeting a bullet head on.

Elsa and Angelica's deaths didn't register to Rico as much as the embrace as her Handler had once given to her. It had been the one genuine gesture of affection he'd ever allowed himself to show Rico.

If she died then and there, it would have been just fine with her. Life was precious any day, but Jean's affection meant more to her then she'd ever allowed herself to think about, or believe.

One day, when she was asked if she were willing to die for her handler, Rico blanched. It was then she offered a thin smile to her questioner, wanting to be truthful, but also not disappointing.

"Um, well, I don't really want to die..."

But Jean had said that it was only right for her to do so, if it meant protecting her fratello. And she accepted that. Because if Jean says so, then it must be true. World without End. Amen.

Besides, dying was a much better alternative to becoming useless.

Being left behind-unable to please, unable to work, unable to move, knowing that Jean was disgusted with her and would never bother to see her again-_that _idea made the tears spill out onto her pillow at night.

Still, she'll keep going until she burns out. Until she's dropped all the seeds she can offer the people who actually mean something to her, she'll destroy by Jean's side, until all the Padania members lie dead in their unholy graves.

That's the fate of the Sunflower.

And she'll smile and glow every second of it, drinking in every ounce of beautiful sunlight until the end.

_Alright….hoped this one went well. Next, we have Elsa: Cluster Amaryllis_


	3. Cluster Amaryllis: Elsa

_Cluster Amaryllis-Elsa_

And thus, we move onto Elsa….*Sighs.* For those who've seen _Gunslinger Girl_, you'll know her story doesn't end happily. Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

For the girls who don't have much of a backstory, in the anime, or in the manga, I've tried inventing

Quote:

_"And so, Ho-Kito was buried beside his love, unwept, and unmourned. But for the maiden, tears were dropped like pearls from the heavens, and trembling hands clutched at one another, as if in prayer. While the prince may have forgotten his devotion, the People had not._

_The red flowers of the dead were draped over their bodies, and the funeral pyres began to burn."_

Her body had moved when it Elsa was simply a normal child, yes. By what, exactly, no one knew. From the day she was born, to the day Elsa had taken her place, only vigor and an overwhelming desire to please had kept her from crumbling into pieces.

For awhile, anyway.

The first time, she'd been given a reprieve, and rescued from the asylum to begin a new existence as a cyborg of the Social Welfare Agency's Section Two.

But the latter, no one could or should help her. She'd seen to that. The only one whose love she craved saw her as an automation. An abomination. And no matter how hard she worked, or how desperate she was to prove her devotion, there was nothing she could do to ever change Lauro's mind.

Ever.

So, she took matters into her own hands. It was simple, really-more simple then she thought possible. Though she hoped-prayed-that there would be no need to use the gun ready in her coat, Lauro had dashed her hopes once again by cold, sneering indifference. He'd forgotten Elsa's special place: The place where he'd named her. Moreover, he seemed disgusted by her decision to bring them there, to that quiet little grove hidden by the trees.

So, just as she took matters in her own two hands, she took hold of the pistol the Agency had given her into her petite, gloved fingers and took aim at the man she loved most while he was walking in the most special place in the world to her.

Her own feelings overruled a series of strict conditioning to protect her handler. How ironic was that?

But he'd crumpled to the ground so easily, so gently-you wouldn't have thought he'd just been shot. Thankfully, Elsa was an excellent marksman, and wanted to make his passing quick, and painless.

And then, she adjusted the revolver around, ready to end her new life where it had begun.

But before I can continue telling this sad story, we must flash back for a moment, if you have the patience to bear with me, gentle reader.

For there are two girls in this story whose story must be told…

Marielle Arabella Di Nico was born to wealthy parents in the heart of Venice. Her father was a successful …..'businessman,' as he put it, while Mother was a 'Housekeeper.' Of course, that was a ridiculous term to use, as the family already had a housekeeper, two maids, and a chauffeur, and, as Mrs. Di Nico had never lifted so much as a mop in her life.

Still, when you're married to a mafia crime lord, I suppose you can have any title you choose. Who's going to argue with you?

I thought so.

'Stay-at-Home mother' didn't quite apply to the good lady, either. She spent most of her days away from the home, having parties with the higher members of society, enjoying spending her husband's money, occasionally hosting balls, mingling with friends in Elitist stores in the city. Her husband, diligent in his work, could be described as a man who treated his line of work as his family.

This, in Roberto Di Nico's case, meant that he had a family outside the home that he enjoyed extorting, coercing, bribing, beating, and burning through a gripthroat hold of terror and awe. He was good at his work, and the money came in chastely every month, much as it had always done before. No one dared to be late with protection payments-only a few people had ever dared refuse Robert Di Nico's network of mobsters to find out.

They were never late, ever, ever again, if they didn't simply go 'missing' first.

In the evenings, Roberto would come home, shout at a few people over the phone if he were in a good mood, and enjoy a glass of port by the fire, or by his swimming pool, if the Di Nicos hadn't traveled to their summer home that year. On the rare occasions that Maria had come home, she usually went to bed, complaining of a hangover, or came home only for a few minutes so she could change into a sophisticated gown or into something else appropriate for fine-dining and endless socializing.

The youngest occupant of the house would usually eat dinner, alone. Not that either Roberto or Maria noticed, really. They rarely remembered the pale little girl who lived on the fourth floor of their estate, in a pink bedroom, surrounded by a sea of cold, lifeless toys and dolls.

Marielle, named for her mother, was a quiet child of eleven years old. She'd been born a year or so after her parents' wedding, and had been promptly handed over to an astounded nursemaid the moment her exhausted mother had tugged her into the world. Maria Di Nico never quite forgave her daughter for the weight she'd gained during the child's pregnancy, and, even now, spent time rubbing a great deal of cocoa lotion onto her womb, desperate to remove the invisible stretch marks she thought were sure to be there.

Roberto, upon initially hearing that his wife was with child, immediately assumed that Maria was bringing a boy into the world-someone to take over the family business.

The ultrasounds had been most unclear, but the family physician had indicated that signs very much pointed to the child's sex to be male.

That had been all the prompting that Di Nico needed. Immediately soon after, he began spending hundreds of dollars on the new baby's room, which were outfitted with blue plush rugs, blue teddy bears, a large toy chest full of engines and rockets for the child to play with when he was over…..blue drapes…..blue wallpaper…..the list went on and on. The interior decorators he'd hired had truly created a 'tasteful piece of artwork-worthy elegance,' as they put it. Even the infant's chosen name-Roberto Jr.-had been carefully stenciled into the walls.

But one cold, wintry day in January, Maria's water had broke, and she'd been rushed immediately to the hospital, with Roberto following behind in his Porsche.

The man had held his wife's hand as the team of doctors carefully worked on the gasping woman, a pair of small blue pajamas ready.

And, after eleven hours of labor, the whimpering, moaning child that had appeared in the world was found, much to the good doctor's discomfort, _not_ the male heir Roberto had so dearly longed for.

A little girl. A very small, underweight, sobbing little girl.

Roberto had eyed the creature with something akin to disgust, as a trembling nurse pulled out a pair of tiny pink pajamas from a nearby drawer. He hardly noticed as she quietly reached for the child, and carefully began to wash off the gleaming fluids on its skin in a nearby basin.

Pitiful, pitiful thing! It wouldn't wail heartily, like every another newborn child. It wouldn't scream or kick in anger-it was just miserably mewing! MEWING!

He would be a laughingstock. Tomorrow, his 'acquaintances' at work were planning on celebrating the birth of his 'son' by passing out cigars, drinking a toast with champagne, laughing, ribbing one another in the shoulder when they talked of the little Di Nico. What would they say when they heard that Di Nico had fathered a _girl_?

Would a _girl _be expected to take over the most notorious underground crime society that Italy had seen in over thirty years? Would a _girl_ carry on his legacy of fear and corruption, or wind up decorating the place of his fathers with frills? Lace? Those bimbo _Barbina_ dolls from America?

A vein had started to twitch in Roberto Di Nico's temple as his wife shot him an accusing look. He glared back. How was this _his _fault, exactly? He had no more control over it then _she_ did!

"Sir?" asked a young nurse from behind him, who had wrapped the baby in a pink fleece bundle. "Sir? We have your little one, here. Oh, wouldn't you like to hold-"

Roberto had abruptly turned around, and strode out of the Delivery Room. He could hear shocked gasps from behind him, but did not care. Still fuming, he went down the hallway, shining loafers making soft squeaks on the polished floor.

Italy could claim to be as liberal as it liked, but to him, the birth of a son was always infinitely more worth celebration then that of a daughter. In _his_ father's day, daughters were little more then marital material. You had one, handed it over to a Rich Boy when she came of age-fine. That was all well and good. But so easily ignored when it came time for a Son to choose a lucky fiancée.

But what would his men say?

The thought made Di Nico stop in the hallway, body turning cold.

They wouldn't dare say anything to his face, but the man could imagine how'd they whisper behind his back, stealing a few guffaws at his expense. He'd lose respect. The respect and fame that he'd worked on creating for over fifteen years, when he'd taken over his father's business!

Surely, the thing wasn't his. But Maria wouldn't dare be unfaithful to him. Besides-the girl HAD inherited some of his features, much to his embarrassment. The same nose, the same shape of the face, the same, dark green eyes that had flickered to his face, searching for any sign of a comforter-

He flicked out his cell phone, and hurriedly dialed a few numbers. Luckily, the hotline was known to be reliable, and he didn't have to wait long before he received an answer.

"_Pronto_. (Hello.) _Si._ I am in need of a nursemaid. Send us one with good credentials-but that is all. I assure you, any one will do."

The girl had been named Marielle, and thus, she grew up. Once in awhile, on a whim, Robert would remember that he did indeed have a child (Though he'd told his employees that the baby was stillborn), and send her a few presents. He'd never asked the little girl what she liked, so, it was usually china dolls.

The dolls wore lacy gowns, all tattered with frills and ribbons and sashes. There was even the occasional fake jewel to adorn the beautiful ball gowns the dolls wore, and they sparkled when you held them up to the sunlight. Marielle had never much liked dolls, or had many ideas what you did with one, exactly, but she played with them diligently each morning after lessons, arranging them on the endless shelves in her bedroom, talking to them, or setting them up to enjoy a tea party. That was, what little girls did with dolls. She'd seen that enough times on the telly.

She cradled her baby dolls, though they were cold and hard things, staring stupidly and blankly at nothing at all. She took them out for walks in her toy pram, the wheels' squeaking filling up the entire house. She told them secrets-most of them fake, as Marielle only had one TRUE secret-but whispered them to the unresponding dolls, anyway.

The little girl grew, despite remaining rather small for her age. Sometimes, she'd tiptoe out of her room when her parents were having a party, (Though this was one of the things her parents had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was NOT to do) and peer past the stairs, clutching to the fine banister poles as though they were bars.

Mother always looked so pretty. Her gowns sometimes billowed around her like apple blossom, giving her a fairy-tale like look. Other times, the small child's eyes would nearly pop out of her head at the sheer sophistication of her dresses. They would sparkle under the _candelabra_'s lights, accenting the young woman's perfect form. Mother's dark eyes would sparkle as she greeted guests, occasionally throwing her head up as she started laughing. Marielle loved it when her mother laughed. Her dazzling white teeth would sparkle too, radiating upon everything else in the room: the fine candlesticks, the lovely wineglasses everyone held, the occasional ice sculpture….

She would hear the fine company laughing-hear Papa's booming voice echoing, which meant that soon, everyone would be laughing. Except her. She was too young to understand the jokes. But if she were there, if women had petted her head and called her a little darling, the way Marielle had seen them do with other people's children, she could laugh, too. It wouldn't matter if she understood or not.

On such an occasion, Marielle sat in her nightgown, rocking back and forth. She held a small baby doll in her arms, though she inwardly knew that she was getting much too old for dolls, anyway. Still, every gift from Papa was a treasure-a heaven-sent present. She might have never asked for a doll, and perhaps he'd never asked her what she wanted, but that was alright. She would have been his son, if he asked her to be. Mother had never given her a thing, though Father had sometimes given her a brief nod. She would have traded every doll in her bedroom for a chest of nods, smiles of approval, or….a hug. A single hug would be worth everything. She loved Papa. She adored him. Surely, he felt the same way. It was only people like Mama who kept getting in the way-who spent time with him when Marielle tried to, and was brushed away by a servant.

Poor Papa had so much work on his hands. He was so often away, so often in meetings, so often left to shout at people on the phone in his office. He did his part for the family, so she tried to, too. She had spent years attempting to be the perfect daughter. She never fussed about her lessons, ate her vegetables alone in the great dining hall, and never broke priceless antiques, or went running down the hallways. Mama was different. For although she was lovely, she spent too much money on frivolities. Marielle thought she could be lovely, too. She could be adored the way Mama was adored, if anyone would give her so much as a glance. Maybe she could even walk down the stairs the way Mama did sometimes when they were entertaining-on Papa's arm.

The idea was heaven. She wanted to wear a pretty dress-to be adored. Marielle didn't know what feeling adored was like-but it had to be different then servants telling you to run along, because you were underfoot. It had to be lovely. It had to feel spectacular. Especially when it came from Papa-the man whom she do anything for.

That was why, as Marielle at last stood up to go to bed that night, she carried a soft smile. She slipped into bed, and reached for one of the dolls near her canopy bed, whispering softly to it her one secret as she took it under her pillow:

"Papa loves me. Very much, you know. That's why he's going to hold a big party in four days. It'll be for my birthday. He'll spend the day with me. Just me."

She paused, and then whispered to the Victorian doll:

"I'll wear one of my new dresses. I'll look beautiful, then. Everyone will say so, you see."

Marielle had a thought she was supposed was unkind, but she sleepily murmured it to the doll, anyway.

"No one will notice Mama. We'll all toast champagne. I won't need any presents. Papa will want to pay attention to me the entire night. And Mama, once she realizes no one cares whether or not she's there, will just go up to bed. And no one will notice."

The lifeless doll stared blankly at her.

She nervously straightened her skirt before she knocked on the door, and heard Papa grant permission to enter. She straightened her dark blonde hair before she slowly opened the door.

It was a big room. Papa was at his desk, frowning slightly at a computer, phone cradled at his ear and shoulder. Apparently, he was waiting for someone to answer. He glanced up once, saw who his visitor was, and then back at his computer screen.

Throat growing dry, Marielle slowly crossed the thick Persian Rug, heart beginning to flutter in her chest. She clasped her hands behind her, waiting for permission to speak. When it did not come, she cleared her throat.

"Papa?"

He grunted. He was still on the phone. Grasping for courage, Marielle went on:

"Papa, my thirteenth birthday's tomorrow."

He grunted again. He must have already known. Encouraged, Marielle continued.

"Papa, I don't want anything for my birthday. I just want to spend the day with you. And then, I want to attend the party you're having for me with mother. I have that new dress you got me last week-I can wear that. It'll look perfect."

A frown crossed Roberto Di Nico's face as static began crackling on the other side of the black speaker. He began to nod energetically, ringed fingers zoning in on his computer screen. The young girl's heart glowed, and she slowly began to retreat. She threw her Father an overjoyed smile, however, when she reached the door again.

"_Gratzie_, Papa. Thank you so much."

He grunted again, and waved his free hand-also loaded with rings-at the door. But Marielle was still smiling when she closed it.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow. It couldn't possibly come soon up.

But, much as it always does, the next day came, bright and early. Marielle's eyes had popped open when it was still dark out, leaping out of bed, a huge smile on her face. She threw open her wardrobe, reached in for a lacy pinafore, and put the carefully laundered article of clothing on with the utmost care.

Her maid helped her put ribbons in her hair, and soon enough, she was racing down the steps to the Dining Hall, spirits soaring.

Much to her disappointment, however, as she bounded into the room, Mama and Papa were not there waiting for her, as she hoped. They must've meant to surprise her, later. She settled into her chair, looking expectantly towards the kitchens.

They brought out blueberry pancakes today-a rare treat. Papa DID remember. Of course he would-how could he ever forget? Well, how could he ever forget when poor Papa wasn't ladled down by work?

Swinging her feet in the air, Marielle waited as she chewed her food, enjoying the sweet taste. She could wait. Mama would pop up smiling any minute now, and Papa would be full of smiles and kisses.

So, she waited. The servants took her empty plate away.

And she waited.

And waited.

By ten o'clock that morning, she'd fallen asleep at the table.

Maybe it was because she'd gotten so little sleep last night, but it was two hours before the little girl stirred. The servants were busy placing lunch on the table-which looked like Roast Beef, today.

So Mama and Papa meant to surprise her with a luncheon! What a great idea, to get all the work that needed to be done out of the way so that they could play later. Marielle wished she'd come up with such an idea herself.

Once she finished eating two courses, the servants hurriedly brought out a large strawberry cheesecake, and set it down on the table without looking at her. Marielle could have clapped her hands from sheer pleasure. It was beautiful-and looked so delicious. There were candles set into the cake, too.

Mama and Papa were probably going to sing her happy birthday, and wait for her to make a wish.

So again she waited.

But still, no one came, even as the candles sank lower, and lower, until they'd become small puddles of wax on the cake itself, and the fires extinguished themselves, with nothing left to burn.

Papa had sent an enormous pile of presents, which she knew were stuffed animals, dolls, bonnets, dresses, hair ties, and toys. Hadn't he heard her say she didn't want anything this year?

She put on her best light blue party dress in the evening. The servants curled her hair. She put on lovely black shoes.

And, around seven that evening, when guests were just beginning to fill the hall downstairs, servants hurriedly whisking away their coats, she'd skipped down the stairs. Curious faces had turned towards her at the sound of her little, pattering feet.

Her light heart had danced at the attention-until she'd seen Mama's horrified face.

She'd stopped dead on the last step, heart now hammering a different tune as her dark eyes searched out Papa.

And the fury in his face made her want to curl into a small ball, and never be seen again.

He had tried to shake off his obvious detestment with a laugh, even as she gazed at him imploringly.

"Sorry, everyone-just one of the servants' children," he had joked, slowly taking hold of the small girl's shoulders, and turned the motionless girl back around. "They keep multiplying like rats, I swear…."

Somewhere in her numb, broken mind, Papa's words echoed hauntingly. Servant's child? Her?

"But I guess I oughta be getting this little signora back to bed, eh? If you'll excuse me for a moment…."

But words found life on her lips.

"I-It's my birthday today, Papa," she'd said falteringly, as people began whispering excitedly amongst themselves. "Today, I'm….."

But he let out a harsh bark of faint laughter.

"Papa! Oh, heavens, listen to this adorable child's stories-"

He'd pinched her cheek-hard. It left a mark, but it had STUNG. There had been no affection behind it, and it made Marielle wince.

"Please, Papa-I want-"

Roberto shoved her up a few stairs, making her stagger slightly. He nodded to a butler who'd been standing beside the door.

"Take this little one upstairs. And lock her in this time."

The idea made her horrified, even as the butler's strong hands took hold of her shoulders, and began firmly tugging the miscreant back upstairs. But the tears were already flowing down her face.

"Papa! Papa, you said I could come down, don't you remember? It's my birthday today! You promised! YOU PROMISED!"

But he'd already turned his back on her. No one seemed to hear her screams, as the embarrassed butler hurried up the stairs with the weeping girl.

"MAMA!"

The woman did not stop talking to her friends, keen to drown out the sound of her daughter's voice.

"PAPA!"

The man did not look back. And horror-unyielding, unfabricated horror-broke over Mariela Di Nico as cold reality set in at last. She screamed one last time before the Servant whisked her out of sight:

"I HOPE YOU BOTH DIE!"

The Butler tossed her in her room. She tumbled to the carpet, but whipped her head around to the closed door, where she could already hear the sound of the key turning in the lock. She raced to the door, and immediately began beating upon it.

"Let me out! Let me out! It's my birthday!"

But she could already hear the man walking away. And soon, Marielle's trembling figure began to sag, as the tears continued to race down her face.

"It's my birthday…."

And, with that, the small wretch to the floor, face buried in her hands as she curled into a ball, sobbing.

Outside her room, the laughing continued long well into the night. But Marielle did not hear it. All that was to be heard was the wind moaning outside, singing itself a sorrowful lullaby.

She didn't move from her place on the floor when she heard a servant unlock her door, and tiptoe away. Her hair was a mess, as was her face. The tears refused to fill in her eyes, anymore. The dark orbs had frozen over, and her face-so flushed with happiness and then misery yesterday-had become as pale as the snow gently falling outside her window.

It took her another hour before she stood up in the silent room. For a moment, she did nothing. She was surrounded by dolls-dozens of them, all staring at her with blank, unsympathetic eyes.

She was ruler of these empty people. In their society, the only society she had been permitted to have, Mama and Papa wanted her to stay here.

She slowly walked across the rug, footsteps echoing in the silent household. Then, she took a small doll off the shelves, and stared at it, her eyes showing neither pity nor love-only cold appraisal. Now the doll knew of the horror that had taken over her body last night.

Now, there was nothing. Nothing inside of her but snow. She'd become a Di Nico overnight-emotions weren't going to guide her hand, anymore.

Well….maybe not quite so. Maybe emotion was the only thing moving her lifeless body anymore. Maybe that, and something else. Something she hadn't decided to do, but knew she would, anyway.

The small doll's body went crashing to the floor. CRASH. Went another doll. China flew in all directions, heads cracked, limbs fell off.

CRASH!

SMASH!

SMASH!

One by one, each doll met the same fate. Her face might as well been carved out of solid ice, but it was composed. The dolls still on the shelves stared at her, but did nothing, patiently waiting for their turn like lambs.

At last, in a sea of china, glass, wood, chips, eyes, bonnets, lace, hair, and ruffled dresses ruined beyond repair, Marielle stood alone in her room.

She crossed it, ignoring the _crunch-crunch-crunch_ sounds coming from beneath her shoes to sit at her bed. She glanced at the nearby clock. It would be quite a few hours to wait.

Well, she'd waited more then her entire life for this moment. She just hadn't known it. A few more hours wouldn't make much difference.

She'd skipped her meals. Afternoon had slowly crawled on towards evening, as Marielle sat there in the darkness.

Evening settled into night. And, at ten o' clock, she finally rose from her bed, and slowly crossed the room again, patiently picking up a large shard of porcelain out of the rubble, not caring when it cut her finger. The servants would have quite a mess to clean up-not that she much cared, at this point.

She observed the piece of porcelain, then dropped it, deciding that she would go down to the kitchen. No one would be afoot there this time of night. And she needed to make a visit or two without anyone interfering in her affairs. If people would not move for her, then they needed to be pushed out of the way. Her father had taught that to her enough.

Thankfully, Mama and Papa had already been in bed when she'd came to their bedroom a few minutes later, clutching her treasure. She didn't bother knocking this time-she'd let herself in.

And, careful not to let the door creak, she entered, cold, cold eyes fixed on her parents' peaceful forms, watching the rise and fall of their chests.

She heard of children fleeing to their parents' bedrooms for safety when they were frightened. Would she have dreamed of such a thing? No. Was she frightened now? No. This was simply what she had needed to do for years now, and had never gotten around to it.

She slowly approached their bed. She didn't hate her parents. Not really. So why was she doing this? Because there was nothing left. Nothing left-so there was no more point in them wasting away anymore. They were full of nothing, just as she was, so she was granting them the same mercy.

She crawled onto the large bed, and slowly creeped up, eyes still fixed on her parents, revealing what she'd 'borrowed' from the kitchen area: A carving knife.

Thankfully, Mama didn't cry out when it was her turn, though Marielle did have to seize a pillow and through it over her face. It wouldn't do to wake up poor Papa, who worked so hard in the days.

She stared at her beloved father for a moment. He hadn't stirred when his wife died; that was good.

The knife flew down.

And, once the deed was done, Marielle turned to herself. She wasn't exactly certain how to stab herself, but it had to be clean and hard…..

A servant had brought in the elder Di Nicos' breakfast, only to fill up the entire house with hysteric shrieks when the door was opened, and the grim spectacle discovered.

An ambulance was called, though two of the pulses had stopped long ago. One pulse, while deathly weak, still lingered.

Police Cars filled the area, and much of Venice rejoiced at the end of the Di Nico empire. Roberto's ranks had ultimately wound up destroying one another in an attempt to seize his family's throne. The extorting ended. The pillaging ended. The deaths and the arson did, too.

Still, the town still talks about just what had befallen the old sinner and his wife and child. Some say that the wife was the one who did it, whereas others insist that Roberto was plagued by his dark acts and eventually driven mad enough to murder his own family.

But those who read the papers know the grisly truth. And they still shake their heads and tut about it-poor little girl. Ghastly as it had been, no one could bring themselves to call the child a murderer. She had done what so many had failed to do, and hadn't she been a victim? Some maintained that she'd been Roberto's offspring from a mistress. Others say that Roberto hated children, and kept her chained upstairs, driving her to madness.

But it didn't matter what they thought. Marielle was soon dragged off to an asylum. If she recovered, officials decided to lock up the little girl where she could do no more harm. She was clearly criminally insane, regardless the circumstances.

But three days after she'd arrived, a hotshot from the government named Jean arrived, inquiring about the newest patient's case...

Two days later, Marielle Di Nico was officially pronounced dead in the papers. Another girl soon took her place at the asylum, and soon, out the door, meekly following a bored-looking man out the doors to a nearby van.

The two had stopped at a nearby park as the driver went to refill the gas tank. It was there that the silent young stranger learned his name: Lauro. Upon querying upon his last name, he had only grunted out, "Just Lauro."

And it was there he decided that she needed a name. And then, he had given her a marvelous, beautiful, precious present: A name.

She was named Elsa di Sica, and named so for a short day thereafter.

Lauro had barely glanced at the girl's profile before he affirmed that, yes, he'd be Elsa's handler. One cyborg was as good as the other to him. In any case, the SWA was generous in its pay, and left a small sum for each handler to cover their 'younger sibling's' expenses.

For Lauro, it was a relatively beneficial job-not hard on the wallet, and in his own field of interest. Being with the government came power, and power was something Lauro enjoyed using very much. Terrorist or one of the Five Republics, it didn't matter much to him. You pointed out whom you wanted dead, and he could easily handle it for you. This job just basically ensured that he was officiated to do what he did best, and paid handsomely, though it was hardly your white-collar dream career.

It wasn't all fun and games at the Agency. For one thing, it was slightly unnerving having this pale little shadow follow him around all the time with haunted eyes. It annoyed him, how Elsa would want to tarry around him in the cafeteria when he and the others were trying to enjoy their meals. He at last had to order her to sit by the other cyborgs, or anywhere else that would ensure him a moment's peace.

Elsa took meals alone in her room, from then on.

She seemed to have no interest in socializing with the other girls. The more Lauro pushed her away, the more she fluttered to him, desperate to be of service, consistently perfecting her markmanship and self-defense martial skills when she was alone. She tended her weaponry each night the way her handler had taught her, and meticulously looked the machinery over for any fingerprints or flaws once she was finished wiping the gleaming instrument down. It was a task that took her a little over two hours to complete, but she didn't care. Lauro wouldn't tolerate anything less then complete annihilation in their missions, and neither would she.

She seemed to take no pleasure in any extracurricular activities. Certainly, she didn't waste any time in stupid, unproductive noise-making, the way that Henrietta did with her violin, or the way Claes did with the piano.

The other girls were annoying, at best. Triela kept wandering by her side, offering her help whenever Hilshire had assigned the girls homework. Lauro wouldn't tolerate her accepting any help, so she turned Triela away each time. Who did that smug showboat think she was, just because she was the oldest girl here? Elsa's eyes narrowed whenever the two exchanged words, wishing the stupid girl would go away, and leave her alone. Maybe learning German was difficult, but she'd manage. She and Lauro always managed. Besides, she'd be much better off offering her time and service to her fratello. Elsa was constantly at work trying to strengthen it, and the girls' lack of effort was dispiriting. But she wouldn't let them make her weak. Let them try. Their so-called 'affection' meant nothing to her. Lauro's affections, however, were an entirely different story.

So what if Lauro never thanked her for her work.

So what if he got angry once or twice during training, and had kicked her? The little girl always smiling like an idiot clown practicing next to her got hit by her handler, sometimes. If she could take it, Elsa knew she could. It hurt her feelings like nothing else when Lauro was displeased with her, but it just meant she had to work harder. For both of their sakes.

But all that changed that night Henrietta had slipped into her room, trying to initiate casual conversation. What a foolish slip of a girl. Elsa could barely comprehend it. Why on Earth would a cyborg care to worry about another when a Handler could usually care less about what you were doing? That WAS what a handler was all about, though. And Elsa had accepted that.

Until, of course, she'd met Henrietta's partner.

He was a quiet man, but had allowed Henrietta to tag alongside him-not behind him, carrying all the equipment-without complaint. He had offered to take her places. And Elsa had once heard Triela complimenting Henrietta on the new dress her 'nice older brother' had gotten her.

It had troubled Elsa like nothing ever did; the foundation of her sturdy, firm world was suddenly thrown into question-into doubt.

Lauro had bought her plain clothes. Plain was fine, sensible. She didn't need a nice red coat or a fancy dress.

But she thought, perhaps, she wouldn't have minded one.

And of COURSE she didn't NEED to travel anywhere. After all, she and Lauro were here on business, not on vacation. They didn't need to go sightseeing together.

But oh, how she would have loved to!

The pats on the head Jose regularly gave to Henrietta, the nods, the elder-brother like attentiveness he gave her, when the four of them were in that tower-

She could only stare at them, when she knew she was supposed to be concentrating on her mark. Worse yet, she'd left the gun safety on right before they were ready to shoot. Lauro had cried out in disgust when she desperately began stammering, desperately trying to regain focus and control.

But Lauro had made her and Jose switch. Henrietta's fratello had pulled her away from her gun with a soft word of apology, and together, he and Henrietta disposed of the target.

Just as she and Lauro had never done together.

It had been bad enough witnessing Jose leave, casting her a look of pity. Worse when Henrietta stared at Elsa, when her world was literally tearing at the edges.

But seeing Lauro's emotionless eyes on her, hearing him mutter the dreaded word-'Useless'-had been the last straw.

Elsa had been left alone in the cathedral tower when everything broke at last. Vaguely, she saw a little girl in a party dress was running down a flight of steps, laughing at her from somewhere in her mind.

It was a gray morning when their bodies were found in that Park, with ravens shrieking overhead. Elsa's face was directed towards the sky, while Lauro's was directly in the Earth below him.

The news of the deaths of Lauro and Elsa were quickly silenced before they could reach the media. Their bodies were removed from the scene, and the two bullet shells that had ultimately taken their lives hastily removed.

The superiors of Section Two knew what had happened. But that certainly didn't mean that anyone else had to find out.

And so, the two were quietly buried, without much ceremony nor fuss. Cluster Amaryllis flowers-the red flower of death-had found their way to their graves, but nothing else.

When it was over, everyone turned their backs on the small graves, some of them discussing things that needed doing that day. None of the girls at the Agency had dropped a tear.

_Epilogue:_

Their graves are right next to each other, just as Elsa would have wanted it. Occasionally, a stray flower covers one or both of their graves. Usually, it's Henrietta who puts them there. She wonders if Elsa would have minded, but remembers that Elsa's beyond caring, anyway.

Sometimes, when Henrietta's looking at the stars with Jose, she wonders where Elsa and Lauro are now. All she ever got from Jose about Elsa's backstory was that it was not a happy one.

Maybe, just maybe, Henrietta thinks that life might have been kind to Elsa for once, even if it was only after Life had handed her and Lauro over into the arms of Death. Elsa wouldn't have to waste away as a Cyborg at the Agency. She could be with Lauro as much as she wanted to. And no one would ever shout at her or push her away again. Because, chances were that Lauro might need all the comfort he could find, and find solace with Elsa. Perhaps he'd forgive her for shooting him, maybe he and Elsa could find bliss and satisfaction they'd never be able to find on Earth.

Henrietta wonders what Elsa was like before she came to the Agency. Maybe the two weren't so very different after all; perhaps not. It doesn't seem like much to ask for, to be loved, to have something or someone worth living for.

But Henrietta knows that it's everything. And it's the true difference maker, at the end of the day. It was, after all, the prime reason why Elsa killed herself and the people she loved.

There are more then just red flowers at their gravesites. Someone has planted a few seeds near the neglected stones-seeds that will burst into marigolds one day, when Spring comes again.

Henrietta hopes Elsa will appreciate them, wherever she is. These flowers bring word of New Life, and, Luck Willing, Elsa was enjoying hers very much right now.

-The End.

Holy COW, that was seriously long! I was NOT planning on Elsa's story taking so much time to write….I think I'm going to cry, now…


	4. Forget Me Not: Beatrice

Forget-Me-Nots: Beatrice

This one is relatively short. I'm afraid Beatrice has a smaller role in the series then most (Bigger then Elsa's, though), but I like her. Hope you like this piece. There are some manga spoilers in here again concerning Beatrice's death, so heads-up.

Quote:

_"And so it was that he placed his small hands upon her eyes, and mourned that future generations would not see their lovely color. So it was then that he placed his hands upon the Earth. And small blue flowers began to rise; flowers like none she had seen before._

_He wanted to ensure that she would never be forgotten. And so, the flowers were given the name, 'Forget-Me-Nots.'"_

It was a different state of affairs then Elsa's funeral. This time, tears actually prickled at Triela's eyes, but would or could not fall-though she suspected that night would be a different story. Her tears normally spilled out the corners of her eyes when she was dreaming. The grief that was inside her would not subside. There was a genuine ache-numbed by conditioning-but there nonetheless.

Beatrice's handler watched somberly as his cyborg's ashes were quietly enclosed in stone. Triela knew he'd be well soon enough-after all, there was never a deficit of girls who could be made into machines. Knowing him, he'd have a new killer picked out from within the week.

Triela slowly turned her back on the small crypt, and headed for the doorway, blue eyes downcast, lost in thought.

No one knew where Beatrice had come from, or her story. She'd simply been found half-dead on the streets one day, and, when no one could find her profile in the substantial 'Missing' list the government held, they made her into a cyborg.

No one had ever come looking for her. They'd given her a handler, a name, a room, and a gun. That was tradition. And oftentimes, more then enough.

Her handler had been a joker of sorts, but he was fair. Beatrice did her job, and had an accurate shot. She occasionally meandered in and out with the other girls, though she seemed….off-center, somehow. It was reported that no one had ever seen her smile.

She didn't _try_ to be gloomy, or unsociable. No, Beatrice just seemed to be unable to feel much of anything. She'd been puzzled as to why Claes enjoyed her gardening and various activities every day, and seemed confused at the term 'sadness' when the girls had begun speaking of Italian tragedies.

Did she know what it was like to be sad? She sometimes felt empty inside-but she felt the same way when she was hungry, so it was hard to tell.

She could touch things. She could feel them. But, hard as she tried, Beatrice seemed unable to emotionally express much.

If there was ever anything to express.

She worried about this, and then, wondered why she did. She thought about it continuously, wherever she went, but could find no answers. She thought she might know the mechanics of laughing-but that was it. She tried a few times in front of her mirror, but produced no success. Her handler's jokes didn't succeed in changing her mood. Violence did not change her mood. She sensed adrenaline in her body-but that was all physical.

She harbored feelings of loyalty towards the agency-but was that too, physical? She knew she had a network of drugs compelling her to protect the SWA and its interests. She wasn't an idiot.

Still, the other girls seemed to express feeling like no one's business. Rico was always smiling….but what for, exactly? Henrietta was easily moved to tears…why? What did having water in your eyes mean? Why was it used so integrally with having strong emotion? Some of the girls here cried in their sleep, but Beatrice put a hand to her eyes each morning to discover the same thing: Dry eyes.

Still, the dreams she couldn't remember having made her feel empty again. And not Hungry Empty, either.

When Angelica had died, the entire staff of Section Two had seemed to lose a little wind in their sails. Beatrice understood enough that loss generally caused humans great grief; was she human?

She hadn't known Angelica that well. Triela had, however, and Angelica's death had shaken her deeply. Beatrice wondered what would happen if she were to lose her handler, like Claes did.

But Claes seemed fine. Only after severe brainwashing procedures, yes-but fine. What would happen if Rico were to die? No….that wouldn't work. Ditto Henrietta. Beatrice had only talked to her once or twice.

What if she lost her ability to smell explosives? That would be a blow, she thought, although there seemed no reason she wouldn't be able to go on as she did before. She'd just be less useful, that's all.

But the idea of losing Triela was….

It had made her mind go numb, especially when she heard the Section One faculty talking about the eldest girl. She'd been the second one here to undergo the cybernetic implants, so, logic dictated that she would be the next one after Angelica to die.

People had seemed genuinely sad at the idea of losing Triela. And the idea made Beatrice herself feel empty. And there was a peculiar burning in her eyes-did she remember to take eye drops, today?

She did not want Triela to die. And Sections One and Two wanted her to live, because Triela could feel and do things well. She was good at her job, but it beyond that.

Triela should not die. On the job, or due to her conditioning.

Beatrice rarely wanted something, but for the first time, she found herself making a devout wish:

That Triela should live. Live until she burned out. Because Triela was someone worth remembering and loving.

Beatrice very much wanted to be someone like that, someday too.

When Triela and Beatrice were called to dispatch Suicide Bombers in Italy's most famous square, Beatrice's last thoughts were on Triela, and that she should live. That was important, right? Triela cared about things, like her handler. Beatrice cared about Triela.

And so, Beatrice had forced Triela out of the line of fire when it came to the final confrontation. It had made her feel….not empty, even when the explosion's hell-like wrath had burst before her eyes.

It made her feel…good inside. Cheerful, even. Because a friend was worth something dying for.

And, for the first time, Beatrice was happy, even in the split second she had before she died almost instantly.

Because the tears had finally come.

She was given a hero's burial-Jose had seen to that. It wasn't much of a comfort for Triela, but it would have to work. It was the only thing she had to keep her from despair.

The blonde-haired girl wandered about the aged walls, wandering about the fresh green grass of spring. Soon, the flowers at the graves would be blooming. Soon, Claes' vegetable patch would be growing.

Triela closed her blue eyes as the wind played at her long hair. Stupid, stupid Beatrice. She had known Triela wouldn't be alive for much longer, in any case-

So why? Dying for a handler, she could understand. Dying for a fellow Cyborg-well, that was another thing entirely. Why emotionless, dull, and dreary Beatrice had done such a thing was almost unfounded. Unreal. She'd left in her wake a series of emotions that Beatrice herself had probably never felt, much less understand: Anger, Guilt, Frustration….

…..sadness.

Triela sank onto a nearby bench, and buried her face in her hands.

First Angelica, and now Beatrice. What would happen if Rico had died trying to protect Jean? Or Henrietta's conditioning and heavy implants finally wore out her body?

What then? Or what if Hilshire-no, no. She wasn't going to think about that. At the end of the day, all you could do was move on after grief, but Hilshire's demise wouldn't just paralyze her from moving forward-it would kill her.

She'd never forget Hilshire. Even if they did to her what they did to Claes-and she'd much rather be dead then that-she couldn't forget. But memory loss was part of the final months that a cyborg had before they died. What if she forgot about everything-like Mario Bossi, his daughter, her teddy bears, Beatrice herself….?

The thought had her back on her feet in a heartbeat, and racing towards the dormitory in a full-out canter.

Two hours later, Triela found herself outside, beside Claes as she patiently began watering her new seedlings, staring at the small notebook she had on her lap. Okay, so it wasn't a proper diary like Henrietta's, but it was the best she could find in the SWA's Recycling Bin, and a diary sounded too neat and girly for Triela, anyway. She hoped Beatrice thought so, too.


End file.
